


A Journey to Be Lost

by SeaCrest



Series: A Life Unmade [2]
Category: Those Who Went Missing
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-16 15:05:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14167512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaCrest/pseuds/SeaCrest
Summary: In which Lyra is lost.





	A Journey to Be Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted [here](https://seacrest-star.deviantart.com/art/Origins-A-Journey-To-Be-Lost-736462751).

When a child of the nomad clans showed signs of magical ability, she was given a crest, usually a combination of her family crest and a symbol that her mother chose for her, and this new crest was tattooed on the child's upper chest, just below her collarbones. It could take years for magic to show; rarely did any child exhibit such abilities before the age of ten or so, and by then her parents would have an idea of who she would become. These nomad witches were different than the other witches, the ones with witchmarks that grew as they did. No, the nomad witches, hedgewitches they called them, did not carry overt signs of their power. You could speak to the most powerful hedgewitch and never know, only that she was a hedgewitch by her crest. Any hedgewitch that gave herself additional marks was considered prideful and vain, not worthy of the power she possessed. Each clan had at least one hedgewitch in their convoy, usually more, and those who bedded a hedgewitch hoped that they would father a daughter, and that daughter would be a hedgewitch too, for the hedgewitches held a unique position in the clans, one that gave them political power in addition to magical power. A hedgewitch was judge, jury, and executioner as well as a healer and purveyor of small magics; she was not a chief, but would sit at his right hand, a trusted adviser second only to his wife. If she had sister witches within the clan, they would form a witch's circle, and it would be the most powerful of this group that would speak for the circle and announce their decisions. 

Lyra was born into such a circle, the daughter of the Rose Star and cousin to the Heron Witch. With luck, she would join them, and the council would number three, a boon to such a small clan who already boasted not one but two hedgewitches. Hedgewitch families were precious, and fiercely protected; to see a hedgewitch leave the clan was a disaster, although no one would stop her if her sister witches backed her decision. But it was early days yet, and Lyra was in no hurry to reveal her magic to her eagerly awaiting clan. No, she was as any other child should be, happy and bright, but disciplined too, knowing what it meant to be the daughter of a hedgewitch and what it meant to be loyal and dutiful. Her clan traveled, and her bright copper hair and pale eyes made strangers assume she was a hedgewitch without looking for a crest, for surely one so young did not have her tattoo yet. She must be a powerful witch, to have grown into her powers so young. No one questioned it, and with time, their assumptions became true.

Her powers revealed themselves when she was just shy of her tenth birthday, earlier than her mother and cousin, and she joined them as the Sun Rose, her crest unique, her mother said, because Lyra herself was unique. She was strong, much stronger than her sister witches, but she was too young to replace her mother, and so the balance of power remained as it was. But with great power also comes the struggle to control it, to not drown under the force of it. Lyra struggled with this, afraid of her own strength, and so weakened herself, limiting herself to the simplest of spells, ones that should have been an insult to what she was capable of. Her cousin tried to teach her, but failed; she could not withstand Lyra's power, and so could not guide her. Not even her mother could, and her mother was stronger than the Heron Witch by twofold. With heavy hearts, a decision was made, a deal struck; Lyra would travel to an old friend, the Stormbreaker, and she would take an apprenticeship with her, to learn and to grow. The Storm Witch was far, far more powerful than the Rose Witch and the Heron Witch combined, and she would be a better match for the young girl with bright hair and dreamy eyes. 

Years passed, and Lyra grew in beauty, strength, and power. Under the tutelage of the Stormbreaker, she honed her control, learned to bend the magic to _her_  will, instead of letting it take her where it pleased. She still preferred the small magics; self-threading needles, sleep-spelled pillowcases, water bottles that never leaked, ribbons that tied themselves, laces that would never come undone until the wearer untied them. These were what pleased her, useful things that helped those around her who were not so fortunate to be gifted with magic, and it pleased the Stormbreaker, that one so strong would be so compassionate. 

At sixteen, marks appeared on the backs of Lyra's hands, delicate, swirling lines that picked out the shapes of stars and moons amidst clouds, like lace gloves on her tan skin. Like her eyes, they shifted iridescent hues, and grew rapidly with each passing day, crawling up her arms and curling lovingly around her shoulders.

Witchmarks.

Never before had the Stormbreaker heard of such a thing. A hedgewitch was a hedgewitch, and a witch was a witch. They might both wield magic, might both be called "witch" in casual conversation, but they were not one and the same. Their magics were not dissimilar, but they were different languages, different dances. Learning both and using them together was unheard of. The Sun Rose was not what she seemed, a herald, perhaps, of a new age, where hedgewitches and witches learned to work together. But the Stormbreaker could no longer help her; she had never learned witch magic. 

In time, Lyra's witchmarks covered every inch of her skin, drawing fine patterns along her cheekbones and creating a sunburst in the center of her forehead, circling her throat with a choker of ocean waves. Her crest was treated with respect, surrounded but not covered, framed by her witchmarks and not obliterated. Eventually, she left the Stormbreaker, seeking to learn more about her witch magic, which the Stormbreaker could not teach her, and so it was at seventeen that she wandered alone for two years, creating and unmaking, experimenting with first one magic, then the other, then both together. She sustained herself by offering her services as a witch, offering her beloved small spells and doing what she loved best; helping others. A child with a cold was given a warm blanket that bled healing magic when they were tucked under it at night. A seamstress whose hands were so callused that she could no longer find work bought from her a pot of daisy butter, charmed to soften and soothe cracked skin. The lame horse was fitted with shoes that would never warp, the farmer who owned him a pick that would pry out even the most stubborn stone. With time, she found companions; a healer who did her healing with herbs and poultices, not charms; an apprentice boy who had run away from home and who spoke to animals as if they possessed human language; a banished knight whose only disgrace was that he had refused to serve a tyrant. These three alone knew Lyra's secret; that she was both hedgewitch and witch, and that her magics were all the more potent for their doubled spells. 

On the eve of her twentieth birthday, Lyra and her companions were seeking her birth clan. It had been years since she had been home; she hardly knew if they would recognize her now, with her witchmarks and her confidence. The Stormbreaker had told them of her quest, but not its cause, and although they still exchanged letters from time to time, even the Stormbreaker felt like a stranger now. But these thoughts would have to wait, their place occupied instead by the sandstorm that came out of nowhere and threatened to swallow them. In their hurry to gain shelter, they were separated, the sand becoming like a fog that flayed their exposed skin and blinded them as they blundered onwards, no longer seeking their companions but find somewhere, anywhere, to hide. All of Lyra's learning was forgotten, the big spells that she had learned but rarely, if ever, used beyond her panicked mind as she could only recall the familiar spells, the small ones that were no use against such a force of nature. There was a spell for stopping the winds, but she couldn't remember the invocation...

Blindly, she fell, and felt leaves under her fingertips. Struggling to her feet, she clung to a great rock that struck her in the stomach as she stumbled into it, and she hunched down in the shallow crevice formed by several other rocks, burying her face in her arms and crying as she wondered if her friends had survived. What was the point of being so powerful, having two magics at her command, if she could not save her friends? She had barely saved herself, and that had been through luck, not magic. The Stormbreaker had believed that she was meant for great things, that she was a hedgewitch and a witch because she was to bridge the divide between them and create a stronger community of magic. But she was worthless as a witch, her power wasted on her. All she wanted was to help; she didn't need the power to move mountains and bring rain to help people, not in the way that she loved best. She didn't want to be special, didn't want to be the first to be both hedgewitch and witch. She would have been satisfied with only one magic, with power on a level with her cousin the Heron Witch, who was best suited to small magics that left the Rose Star free to take on the bigger tasks of calling forth wells and summoning prey. Why hadn't she focused more on what she could do, rather than what she wanted to do? It was selfish, and it had cost her three of her dearest friends, for even if they were not dead, surely they would hate her for not protecting them when they all knew she had the strength to shield them from the storm.

Lyra didn't notice the storm's passing as she curled in on herself, seeking answers that she did not have, and despaired knowing that her companions were likely dead or dying, and she had not been able to lift a finger to save them. 


End file.
